Archive for April, 2012

According to the Discovery Channel, there is no time inside a black hole. The force of gravity is so strong, time and space cease to exist. 

There is a huge black hole inside of every galaxy and millions of other smaller black holes milling about the Milky Way. Suns are ripped apart, not even light escapes. 

Einstein’s theory of relativity is what is used to explain the laws of these mysterious gaping holes in space, yet little is known about what may be formed on the other side of a collapsed star. 

If time is squeezed out of existence in these great vaginas of cosmic orgasms, then what ever becomes of our dreams that take place along a stretch of highway known as space in a void that is reality? 

Perhaps Einstein is hampering the discovery of the world’s next atomic bomb, or technical marvel that is equivalent the automobile. We need to rethink our understanding of something we have yet to actually see. We only assume black holes are there because of great bursts of gamma rays that shoot out from stars that have shrunk to the size of a tiny penis. 

Time can never disappear, it only passes us by, and when it gets sucked into a black hole, it comes out on the other side where everything works in reverse, unlike in this life, where the only hope of eternity is having children and living through offspring that so often think so differently than the generation that squeezed them into existence. 

Einstein may not have been the brightest star on this side of Eden, but one thing is for sure, there is time inside of black holes– there just has to be. 

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Juan spotted me leaving my apartment last evening and quickly came into the hallway to spread his anxiety. 

“My wife left me again. She hasn’t been here in over an hour. I think she is across the street at the old folks home, taking the man she wants to move in with us another plate of food. I’m worried.” 

“Why worry, Juan?” I asked. “We are to be like the lilies of the field– isn’t that what the bible says?” I ask, remembering that Juan’s wife Lucy once boasted over the fact that her elderly husband was once a preacher. 

“Yes, it does say that, but I’m all alone over here. Come inside. Look. She left a plate of food and some juice on the table. While I was asleep, she just vanished.” 

I felt sorry for the old Spanish man with silver hair and the disease that is affecting his mind. Since the weather has turned warm, Lucy has once again put on her tight pants and can be seen regularly running up and down Central Avenue like a tramp. Even though the old man can’t think clearly, I’m sure he understands what she has been up to. 

As I turned to walk downstairs, I looked Juan in his eyes and said, “Juan, you are still a very handsome man. You look so good for your age. Why not go get a younger girl, or at least flirt with one. I bet she won’t run out when you are sleeping again.” 

Juan laughed and it seemed, he blushed at the compliment. “Don’t say a word of this to her when she returns, alright?” 

“My lips are sealed,” I said, while pretending to zip and invisible zipper that covered my mouth. 

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Secret Service agents who buy pussy lose good jobs. 

It is disgraceful that a married man cannot sneak away on business and stimulate a foreign economy, even if the business involves the protection of the United States President. Soon, these agents will be out of work, their mortgages will default, and they too may need to sell their asses just to keep a roof over their heads. 

How many wives of these cheating men will remain married once they learn the cash cow of a G-S employment structure ends with a job as a security guard at Walmart? There will be no free pussy when these men get home. 

While the Feds are investigating the whore who went off in a lobby in Columbia, agents need to investigate all other employees of the Federal Government and the lavish trips to conferences taken by these prostitutes of the national treasury. Whores are just the tip of the iceberg. Imagine what must go on when employees of the patent and trademark office gather in far away places where almost everything is legal, unlike here in America. 

The sin that these ‘secret service’ men have committed is not banging foreign whores who are potentially spies, but how it was they got these great paying, high profile jobs in the first place. These boys think they are special and have been treated as golden from the day their daddies paid off politicians to hire them—the true pimps of our new world order. 

I’m sure the president cringed when he discovered that his boys were caught red-handed. 

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Benjamin Matthews, founder of Opera Ebony, was the first elder I met at the gay hustler bar, Stella’s. Matthews, considered an expert on old Negro spirituals, had a preference for Latino dancers that were far too common in the male stripper bar in Times Square. 

Matthews admitted he favored any young man willing to expose their private parts for a mere dollar, and would give up his high C vocal range for an opportunity to run his tongue across the crack of hairless Puerto Rican that night. 

My new lover was Benjamin’s best friend. Although the two never claimed to have exchanged currency for sexual favors, they were quite open with one another, and Benjamin never hesitated to inform Frank about the men he had taken out of the bar and to his swanky Upper East Side home which also served as the offices and studios of Opera Ebony. 

Benjamin noted that it seemed many of the old, white queens, who commonly competed with the Opera Ebony star for attention had an attraction to me, despite my own Caucasian bloodline. A recent coloring of my short hair with a bottle of Revlon Colorsilk made me look Spanish under the dim lights inside of Stella’s. 

“Are you sure you are white?” Benjamin asked, rubbing my biceps and smiling at Frank, “You found yourself a good man here in Charlie Boy. And just look at that little bootie he got.” Matthews stood from the stool he was sitting on, raised his glass of rum and started to sing… 

“De Lawd, He thought He’d make a man 
Dese bones gwine rise again 
Made ‘im outa mud an’ a han’ful o’ san 
Dese bones gwine to rise again.“ 

Benjamin carefully sat back down, picked up his cocktail, and before drinking, carefully wiped his lips as if the singing had stained them. 

“It’s true what you said about white people, Benjamin. They have tails,” Frank jokingly remarked, as if the two shared a joke that I had not yet been told. 

I felt my face turn red as he made this remark, for at the base of my tailbone, just above my hairy crack, a perfect ‘V’ shape had formed upon my freckled skin– an indentation from an unusually deep end of a tail bone. 

“Don’t ever come into Stella’s without me,” my new lover threatened as we left the bar that night. “These boys are dangerous and are trash. I’ll introduce you to people you’ve seen in movies if you stick with me. Remember this and don’t take it as a threat, Benjamin will tell me if he sees you in here. Do you understand?” He asked. 

“Yes, very much so,” I replied wondering just how long my new romance would last and whether it was true that Benjamin Matthews knew more Black movie stars than he did young latino men… 

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Leaves that had fallen to the forest floor before the winter snows were mostly decomposed. Slipping several times upon fresh morning dew, we tumbled toward the river, empty minnow buckets clattered upon moss covered stones that were still exposed despite a thick bed of fragrant, brown leaves.

A thick crusty cake still covered my eyes. Tears streamed down my cheek and washed away a hard substance that had collected in the corner of my eyes during my sleep. Ahead, Bill was already at the creek, pulling from the water the first of several steel minnow traps.

“There’s at least fifty in here, hurry up!”

Nearly fainting from a sudden urge to pee, I quickly unzipped a pair of plaid checkered pants and peed upon a small pine tree growing at the edge of the cold, icy creek—a tree that still stands to this day and although evergreen, seems to bloom this time of year in an almost yellow hue.  


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Easter bunny


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Prostitution must be made legal in New York City, or at least the gay hustler bar, Stella’s should re-open. 

An “academic” from France who was associated with Columbia University was killed by a gang of gay thugs he met on-line while visiting town for a conference. Had he gone to Stella’s Bar and met a man whore, he’d still be alive, like the wealthy “educated” clients who I once had. 

Mayor Michael Bloomberg is responsible for the academic’s death. Bloomberg, who reminds me of most of my Johns, shut down Stella’s when he first became the mayor. His actions are like a black calling another black a ‘coon’. 

Stella’s was a who’s who of cocksuckers, including a former Taxi and Limousine Commissioner who my lover at the time had, as well as other rich men who had rich wives who did not care. 

Only once did I permit a man to tie me up in a hotel room—how dumb that was, I realize now, but he tied me up on our second encounter, a “date” he called it, where he shelled out and additional $500 for simply tickling me. He claimed that by tying me up, he’d be more turned on because I’d have no way of escaping his “magic fingers”. 

The rich John told me all about his fetish at Stella’s where he confirmed with several other male whores that he was safe. He even offered to buy a second male whore of my choosing to watch as he tickled me. I had a slim, boyish figure, right up his alley. His money paid for an unexpected tip to Puerto Rico where I did half the island, forgot about my sinful nature for a weekend, and the fact was, I simply wasn’t ticklish and I considered the job being tickled by him an opportunity to hone my acting and writing skills. 

Had I grown up in this new Facebook age, there would be no more status updates for me and they’d find my body with all the other craigslist whores being uncovered in the sands of Long Island. 

Let us stimulate the economy and re-open Stella’s so that wealthy tourists are not afraid to attend conferences here and purchase studs that are not afraid to kiss or giggle for a buck. 

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